Sailor's Dread
by Saturnine Spiders
Summary: Where there were gunshots, there were men. Where there were men, there was food. James supposed it was just his luck. He would fall off the back of a yacht and find himself in a jungle.


**Title: **Sailor's Dread

**School: **Mahoutokoro

**Theme: **Artemis

**Main Prompt: **[Song] Venus – Shocking Blue

**Year: **Fifth (Part-Timer)

**Wordcount: **3,267

**A/N:** Ever read _The Most Dangerous Game? _I'm sure I don't need to draw out what happens in this, but I will explain one thing. In this, there is no magic. It's set in 1924 because that is when the book I've based this on published, it is also why everyone's way of speech is a little stiff. I chose Lily to play General Zaroff because she resembles Artemis in both looks and personality. Enjoy.

* * *

**1924**

James dreamed.

The smoulder from his cigar was still there, palpable, tangent, like velvet welkin, draped over his neck and carding through the salt and pepper of his beard. It tasted of cinder and something bitter, of bolus and copper — like the eidolon of a hand's wife, pressing tart lips to the back of his throat. James supposed that in another life he'd have discarded the joint, let the sea's harsh zephyr wrestle it from his chapped lips, drowning the cigar beneath the naval's dark abyss. Instead, he stole another drag, the sensuous sloth of the night on him.

The dark empyrean could be his eyelids, he mused, and he'd be able to sleep with his eyes open. Albeit, to his left, he could hear the swish and ripple of the wash of the propeller, like clockwork, and to his right, there was a sense of nothingness through drunken speech. It was all jake, though. He could sleep tomorrow night, and he'd be just as right as he would any other day.

"There's an island just around here," said Remus, and there he was beside him, as if he was always there, and never anywhere else. He smelt of salt — the type of salt that stung your eyes and burned the inside of your nose. "I'd be damned if you haven't heard of it. It's rather a mystery..."

"What island is it?" James asked, trying to peer through the dank tropical night that was corporeal as it pressed its thick warm blackness in upon the yacht.

Remus rolled his eyes, reclining in his steamer chair. There was a bottle of whiskey in his hand, the auric liquid almost as bright as an incandescent lamp. "The old charts call it as they see it, but no one's lived long enough to put it to paper," he replied. "Sailors have a curious dread of the place. They say the last ship that went near it drowned like a rat in water. I don't know why. Some superstition —"

"Can't see it," James remarked, suddenly, waving his hand around aimlessly, as if he could scour away the black and make it light again.

"You've good eyes," said Remus, with a laugh. "I've seen you pick off a hawk as wide as a fawn about four hundred yards east of it, but even you can't see five miles or so through a night as dark as this. Makes me feel better about myself if I were honest."

"Nor four yards," admitted James. "Merlin, it's like a dream."

"Must be dark, then, those dreams of yours."

James shrugged indolently. "Depends on what kind you're thinking."

"It will be light enough in Rio," promised Remus. "Should make it in a few days, anyway. I hear the jaguar guns from Purdey's shipped early. There should be some good game up in the Amazon. Fine sport, hunting."

"The best sport in the world," agreed James, putting in his two cents.

"Well, sure, for the hunter," amended Remus. "Not for the jaguar."

"Don't talk like some bluenose, Remus," said James. "You're a big-game hunter, not a philosopher. Who cares how a jaguar feels?"

"Perhaps the jaguar does," observed Remus, manipulating the whiskey in his hand like he would a marionette.

"Bullshit! They've no understanding."

"Even so, I rather think they understand one thing — fear. The fear of pain and the fear of death."

"Phonus balonus," James laughed. "You've always been a big softie, Remus, especially when drunk. Try this once to be a realist. The world is made up of two classes — the hunters and the huntees. Luckily, you and I are hunters. Do you think we've passed that island yet?"

"Maybe, I very well can't tell in the dark. I hope so."

"Something wrong?" asked James, letting himself catch a glimpse of his friend's solemn expression.

"The place has a reputation — a really bad one."

"Cannibals?" suggested James, poking at his ribs as if he were a vulture.

"Hardly," Remus chided, swatting at his hand with his bottle. "Even cannibals have something left to desire. But it's gotten into sailor lore, somehow, like some sort of plague. Didn't you notice that the crew's nerves seemed a bit tense today?"

James snorted. "One superstitious sailor can taint the whole ship's company with his fear, you know."

"Maybe. But sometimes I think sailors have a penchant for knowing when they are in danger. Sometimes, I think evil is a tangible thing — like an umbrella shielding us from the rain. Anyhow, I'm glad we're getting out of this zone. I think I'll probably turn in for the night, James."

"I'm not tired," said James, on instinct more than anything. "Too much sleep could turn you into a leper, didn't you hear?"

Remus huffed a short, jaded laugh. "I'll be sure to tell Captain Black that."

"He'll riot, I bet."

"Good night, James."

"Right. Night, Remus."

Fragments of thought, splinters of words, and droplets of silence spun into a kaleidoscopic jumble, shifted infinitesimally, and fell into an incredible new pattern, resting itself against his bare flesh, just barely there like a drop of poison in the ocean was. Then, an abrupt sound startled him, knocking the vial of poison deep within the sea's current, shattering the illusion of treasured silence. Off to the right, he heard it, he was sure. Again the sound pierced through the air, and then again. Somewhere, off in the blackness, someone had fired a gun three times.

James vaulted forward, moving quickly to the rail, mystified. He strained his eyes in the direction from which the reports had come, but it was like trying to see through a mattress. He staggered as another gunshot sounded, purloining his sense of equilibrium from beneath his feet and tipping him over and off the edge of the yacht like a bottle of wine. A hoarse cry came from his lips but was pinched short as the blood-warm waves of the Carribean sea folded over him, swallowing him beneath its black deluge.

He struggled to the surface, sputtering as the ebbing current slapped him in the face and gagging as the salt water in his open mouth lolled down his throat, choking him. Almost delirious, James pulled himself together, striking out with strong strokes after the receding headlights of the yacht, but he stopped before he swam any further than fifty yards. Remus had barely been gone a few minutes, someone had to have heard him, but that thought grew more and more wistful as the yacht raced on. The lights of the yacht were becoming faint and ever-vanishing fireflies; then they were blotted out entirely by the night.

James remembered the shots, and like a gale, he began to swim in the direction that they had come from, and for a seemingly endless time, he fought the sea like he fought the game he hunted. He didn't think to conserve his strength; he didn't think of anything — the sea was poison.

But, then there was something in the air. It came out of the darkness; a high screaming sound, like an animal that's been skinned alive, garbled, muffled, intermittent, but none the less distressing and intense. He did not recognise the animal that made the sound; he did not try to; the sea had stripped him of any cognition he had. "Poison," muttered James, swimming on.

He was almost on the rocks before he saw them, and he knew on a night less calm he would have been shattered against them. The ocean was like floating in the void free of gravity, but it left James in wretched tethers, yet jagged crags that appeared to jut up into the opaqueness were something he welcomed. He forced himself upward, hand over hand like a puppet without strings. His hands were bleeding, but he wasn't in the water anymore, instead, dense jungle folded around James like it was taking possession of him.

He supposed he should have worried about what lay beneath coy green arms and underbrush, but he couldn't bother to spare the jungle another thought. All he knew was that he was safe, the sea could no longer drown him, and that exhaustion was beginning to teeter at his vision. James flung himself down at the jungle edge and tumbled headlong into the deepest sleep of his life.

* * *

**3:46 PM **

James roused without warning, eyes flung so wide you could see every single vein. After a second or two, his head turned, mouth slackened as bile rose from the depths of his stomach and onto the jungle floor. He struggled to breathe, but sleep had given him something new and bitter to think about — famine was picking at him, pulling his taut flesh with sharp, unforgiving canines. He looked about him, almost cheerful.

Where there were gunshots, there were men. Where there were men, there was food. James supposed it was just his luck. He saw no sign of a trail through the closely knit web of weeds and trees, but there was a coastline, an unbroken front of snarled and ragged jungle fringing the shore. He examined the ground closely, floundering along by the water, his eyes strained and haggard despite sleeping for who knows how long.

Bleak darkness was blacking out the sea and jungle when James sighted the lights. Castle walls were beginning to rise out of the darkness, out of the silent charcoal curtain that was the dawn. They were pitted and forlorn, no longer the bastions of protection and glory that they once were, but they were beautiful. The castle laid on a high buff like an old man of the hill, the noisy sun shone on his craggy, tumbled down face. Moss clung in the shade of the ancient walls like a straggly beard.

"Mirage," James mused. But it was no mirage, he found, when he opened the tall spiked iron gate. The stone steps were real enough; the massive door with a leering gargoyle for a knocker was real enough; yet above it all hung an air of uncertainty.

The door opened before he could even reach the knocker, like a cat in the beginnings of rainfall, and James stood, weary eyes drinking in the fountain of auric light that poured out. The first thing James' eyes discerned was the ugliest petticoat James had ever seen — a nasty creature, clumsily made with inky, corkscrew curls falling short of the waist. In her hands, the woman held a long-barreled revolver, and she pointing it straight at James' heart.

Out of the snarl of ragged, unkempt hair, two beady eyes regarded James like he was an animal and nothing more.

"Don't be alarmed," said James, with a soft smile he hoped was enlightening. "I'm no thief. I fell off a yacht, actually. My name is James Potter."

The dangerous look in her eye did not change. She did not give any indication that she had heard him or even understood him; it was as if she was a leaf embedded in stone, unsentient and unmoving. She was dressed in uniform — a tall, stocky uniform that didn't seem to fit her right.

"My name is James Potter," James began again. "I fell off a yacht. I am famished, surely you understand that."

The woman blinked, and then clicked her heels, her free hand going to her heart like she was about to drop into prayer. Another woman was coming down the tight, marble staircase, a lovely, opulent lady in evening robes. She advanced towards James and held out her hand, her fingernails painted a dull silver, like the moon.

In a dulce voice marked by age, she said, "It is a great pleasure and honour to welcome Mr. James Potter, the renowned hunter, to my home."

Automatically, James shook the woman's hand. "Just call me James."

"I've read your book about hunting javelina in Trinidad, you see," explained the woman. "I am General Evans, but you may call me Lily."

Her hair was like a raging, encompassing fire, James noted, and her eyes were bright and clear, too green and drawn, like a painting stretched too far across its border. She had high cheekbones, and a spare, dark face — the face of a woman with no fear of men, the face of a hunter. Turning to the woman beside her, the general made a sign. The creature put away her pistol, pressed a hand to her heart, withdrew.

"Bellatrix is an incredibly dexterous woman," Lily remarked, eyes warm as she looked at her companion. "But, she has the misfortune of being dumb and deaf. A beautiful woman, but, I'm afraid, like all her race, a bit of a savage."

"Is she Russian?"

"She is a Tommy," said the general, and her smile showed red lips and pointed teeth. "So am I."

"Come," she said, suddenly. "We shouldn't be chatting here. Let's show you to the dining room. I'm sure Bella could find something for you to wear, and if not, I hope you won't mind wearing women's garb."

Bellatrix had reappeared, and the general spoke to her with lips that moved but gave forth no sound. "Follow me, if you please, James," said Lily. "I was about to have my dinner before you came."

The dining room that the general conducted him to was more of a castle's ballroom than it was a place for eating. It was a grand space, to say the least. The huge mahogany table took up most of the vast space that the dark, romantic room offered, and above it, two tall, silver candelabras commanded attention from the centre of the table, holding smooth white candles whose wax never dripped. About the halls were mounted heads of many animals — lions, tigers, elephants, moose, bears; some so large and perfect, that for a moment, James felt as if he was in some sort of surreal dream.

"You got some wonderful heads here," said James, taking his seat. The general sat at the end of the great table, alone. "That snow leopard is the largest I ever saw."

"Oh, yes. He was a monster, a beautiful one, but a monster nonetheless."

"Did he attack you?"

"Tore apart my hamstring," said the general. "I was in crutches for weeks, but I managed."

"I've always thought," James expressed, "that the snow leopard is the most dangerous of all big game."

For a moment Lily did not reply; she was smiling her curious red-lipped smile, something akin to scorching fire in her jaded eyes. "No," she said slowly, as if talking to a child. "You are wrong, sir. The snow leopard is not the most dangerous big game." She sipped her wine. "Here in my preserve on this island," she said in the same slow tone, "I've been blessed by Lady Artemis herself."

James narrowed his eyes. "Is there big game on this island?"

Lily laughed. "The biggest."

"Really?" There was doubt in his tone.

The general smiled. "It isn't here naturally, of course. I have to stock the island."

"What'd you import?" jeered James. "Moose?"

"No," she said, her smile falling flat. "I may be a woman, Mr. Potter, but I'm no dame. I've exhausted the possibilities of all the animals you see there on my walls. I live for danger, you see, and there is no real danger is something you already know."

Lily picked at her mushroom soup, bitter greens with tomatoes the size of peas floating aimlessly. "We will have some capital hunting, you and I," she promised. "You will be amused, I know."

"Yeah, okay," began James, with a scowl. "But what game —"

"I'll tell you," said Lily. "May I pour you another glass of port?"

Without waiting for a reply, Lily filled both glasses. "Lady Artemis makes some women poets. Some she makes cooks, some healers. Me, however, she made a hunter. My hand was crafted out of Lady Artemis' legacy, my mother once said. When I was only five years old, she taught me how to craft a bow from willow and twine, and with it, I learned to shoot sparrows. When I shot some of her prized turkeys with it, she did not admonish me as my father would have, had he found out; instead, she complimented me on my draw."

The general slathered a piece of bread with butter, the knife as sharp as a serpent's tooth. "I have hunted every kind of game in every land. It would be impossible for me to tell you how many animals I have killed."

She sighed. "A terrible thought crept into my mind a few years ago. Hunting was beginning to bore me! And hunting, you must know, is my life — my bequest. Lady Artemis would be ashamed!"

"Is that so," muttered James.

Lily smiled. "I have no desire to upset her," she said. "I had to do something. So, I asked myself why the hunt no longer satisfied me. You are about the same age as me, James, perhaps you can already guess the answer."

"What was it?"

"Simple, it had become too easy. It came to me from Lady Artemis herself what I must do," the general replied.

"And that was?"

Lily's eyes seemed to twinkle as she looked ahead of him and to the ceiling, her hand placed over her heart in silent orison. "I had to invent a new animal to hunt," she said.

"A new animal? You're jesting!"

"Not at all," she said. "I never joke about hunting. I needed a new animal. I found one. So, I bought this island, built this house, and here I do my hunting. The island is just perfect —"

"But the animal, General Evans?"

"I wanted the ideal animal to hunt," explained Lily, with a smile that was all red and white. "I needed one who had courage, a cunning matched with my own, and, above all, it must be able to reason."

"But no animal can reason," objected James.

"You just did," she laughed.

"To hell with that! You can't mean —" gasped James.

"And why not?"

"You can't be serious! This is a grisly joke."

"Why would I not be serious? I am speaking of hunting."

James erupted out of his seat, pushing his chair to the floor. "Hunting? What you speak of is murder!"

Lily regarded him not entirely unkindly. "Surely your experiences in the war —"

"Did not desensitize me to the point of condoning cold-blooded murder!" James spat.

Lily shook in apparent laughter, holding her ribs. "How extraordinarily droll you are!" she said. "Lady Artemis was correct in her assumption of men. All tend to be the same, sadly, blinded by their own ignorance. I'll wager you'll forget your notions when you go hunting with me."

"I'm a hunter; not a murderer, thank you."

"Dear me," Lily scowled. "I think I can show you that your scruples are quite ill-founded."

James snorted. "I'm sure."

"Life is for the strong. I'm sure you understand that. I am strong. Why should I not use my gift? If I wish to hunt, why should I not? I hunt the scum of the earth: sailors from tramp ships, mostly."

"They are men!" said James hotly.

"Precisely," amended Lily. "That is why I use them. It gives me pleasure. They can reason, after a fashion. So they are dangerous."

"But where do you get them?"

Lily turned to him, her scarlet hair a great hungry serpent, licking at the nape of her neck like a spark of cinder. "Why," she answered, with a laugh. "Lady Artemis sends them my way, of course."


End file.
